The tracks leading from the cave mouth tell the tale as surely as a bard's ballad, testifying to the tread of dozens of inhuman feet. So this is where they came from.

"Those caves run all the way through the mountain," says Jaren. "There are treacherous branches deep inside where no one ever sets foot. They could have been lurking in there for months."

As you near the entrance, you see flickering light and dancing shadows - the unmistakable children of fires burning within. Some of your enemies are still inside, and by the look of things they've settled down and made their camps.

You step into the shadowy interior, your companions following close behind. Everyone clutches a weapon in their hand, knowing that the day's carnage is far from over.

You follow the direction of her gaze and see paint on the walls, a number of primitive designs illuminated by the firelight. One of the crude drawings there catches your eye. It shows a beastman standing atop a human's poorly proportioned corpse, his head tilted as though howling in triumph. Over these figures looms a larger design, this one drawn with greater skill and care. The painted lines that comprise it are wet, glistening in this light like fresh wounds upon the rock. The work is unfinished, the creature's body incomplete. But the image is clear enough. It's a dragon.

"In the time of the Drake War beastmen worshipped dragons," Jaren says.

"It seems that some of them still do," you reply.

An iron pot rests over the nearest fire, suspended from a makeshift tripod of thick wooden sticks. You glance inside it, and your nose wrinkles at the strange, almost noxious smell that wafts from within. Paint, bubbling in anticipation. Brewed to create the rest of the wyrm's body.

You kick at the tripod, knocking aside flimsy legs that were never designed to endure such abuse. The pot strikes the ground with a great clang. Tessa curses as she leaps aside, narrowly managing to keep her boots out of the splash of paint that erupts from it.